A Court of Madness and Depth

Chapter 4

As our parents had taught us, Rhysand and I simply avoided addressing the problem between us. The lengths to which we would both go to maintain silence seemed to have no limit. Since our fight my brother had not slept in my room. In fact, He actually had pretty much abandoned the House of Wind altogether, instead spending many days at our cabin in the Illyrian mountains with Cassian. Our mental bond had fallen nearly as silent as it had during the Rite.

Nevertheless, the conflict was a pestering scab that begged to be scratched. It wormed its way into every minimal conversation we had. It pestered my waking and dreaming hours. I wanted him to admit that he was wrong. I also didn't want him to believe that what I wanted was wrong. It seemed as though neither of those were going to happen.

Tamlin's visit was also consuming my mind. Between the two situations I hardly had a mental moment of peace. The date Tamlin and I had agreed to meet was swiftly approaching. However, I recognized that I would need to actually speak with my brother if I were to redeem my promise to the son of the Spring Court.

The outlook I had on both was rather grim at the moment, but I knew that the fate of Prythian may lay in my hands if I did not arrange the meeting.

I spent as much time as I could training with Azriel, the only companion my age at the House of Wind. I never questioned whether or not Azriel was looking for a companion, I simply made him mine. I don't know what he thought of our growing bond, but I appreciated our time together.

In every way Azriel was silent, I was talkative. I used our training sessions to complain about anything and everything, and as the silent male that he was, he listened. I griped about Rhysand's lack of support in me. I threw fits over my father's lack of tact towards my mother and analyzed the flaws in the way he ruled the Night Court. The shadowsinger learned of all of my fears considering the ever-encroaching war with Hyburn. I even found myself babbling to him about my friendship with Tamlin, completely unguarded. Azriel never complained, at least to my face, he simply lent me a compassionate ear.

My endless chatter did not stop me from pushing him in the training ring. Every session left him breathless and sweating. Though his body was strong, his ability to use his magic was still nearly non-existent. He soon learned that using magic caused its own form of physical toil. Illyrian magic was brute, easily accessible force. The type of power we used was careful, crafty, and needed fine tuning. Each training session left him sleeping for hours afterwards.

I taught him everything that I knew about singing. I offered him mental pictures from my memories of what I felt when I had used my unmatured power while training with my mother and brother.

Breathsinging and Shadowsinging were very different, but I explained using words and physicality. My instruction was often met with silent stares of brief nods. He seemed to understand, though he often struggled. His mind never could quite relax, it was always the swirling mass of unpredictable dark shadow.

However, if the shadowsinger felt discouraged his face never displayed it. His unreadable face only showed the cool and casual expression to which I had grown accustomed.

Azriel also never removed his shirt. I had trained with Cassian and Rhysand enough to know that the two took every opportunity to strip down. I had made it clear to him that he should wear or not wear what made him comfortable. I had a feeling the scars on his hands reached higher than his wrists.

The shadowsinger had grown into a comfort with my presence. He stood with less rigid form and didn't cringe when I corrected his posture. He even allowed me to adjust his arms and legs without hesitation. I always asked for permission. The scars which burned like a tattoo across his hands reminded me that I needed to be careful with the distance I kept. I didn't want anything I did to make him uncomfortable, for training purposes and for genuine concern.